Minyaqualmë
by FireFly07
Summary: Finwë versus Melkor outside of Formenos.


Thanks to Araloth the Random for the awesome beta-reading.

**Minyaqualmë**

"Minya" (first) + "Qualmë" (death.) I'm aware that the murder of Finwë wasn't really the first death, but it _**was**_ the first bloody death by weapon. I'm sorry, too: I made Finwë seem so weak and untrained. But that's what you call _impression_, I guess. Somewhere, sometime ago, I must've read a story where he seemed as feeble as horseradish.

Did Fëanor make Finwë's sword for him? Ah well. I suddenly got obsessed with colons! And sentences in italics! (And giving my stories Quenya titles.) **If my Quenya is all muddled, please tell me. Please? Think of it as critique. ^~^ please correct me about anything that needs it. Thanks. (Because I'm terrible at making sentences with the Quenya words.) **You will also forgive the details of the fight, because I have never handled a sword before! *grins sheepishly*

Also: If anything was written in an official essay (by JRRT, Christopher, or some qualified person) about the murder of Finwë, I have not read it. For all I know, Melkor might have been the silent-killer type, Finwë might not have fought back for whatever reason, or there might have been a lengthy, classical, pre-battle one-on-one talk/speech. Now I'll stop the Author's Note that is as long as the fic itself! *wide eyes*

**ΩΩΩΩΩ**

The shadow darts around. He can sense it; he can feel it. Gray eyes scan the surroundings wildly: looking, searching. Outside the walls of Formenos, everything turns cold and gray. The shadow nears. He knows. Hands fly to the beautiful, jewel-crested sword. Fingers grasp the cold hilt, and the spirit throbs: _my son made this for me._

The environment grows colder with every heartbeat: _the shadow is moving. _He pulls out the Elven blade. It glitters. His eyes focus on the silhouette standing in the darkness; its own blade seems to be made of evil itself, twisted into a bright metal. It advances in quick steps, and he knows who it must be. The mouth opens, and out comes a cry:

"_Fëanáro! Yonya, m__assë nalyë_?_" _The Spirit of Fire, my son, where are you? _Your presence will mean everything to me._

No reply. _He must still be out, teaching them swordplay—when their skills are needed __**here**_. His heart burns with anger for his ill fortune. So hand in sword, he makes brave steps towards the shadow—and the fight begins.

In this battle, skills are tested to the extreme. Metal clashes against metal, and the full spirit of battle falls into this one fight. He runs to take a decorative shield hanging on the wall, and raises it in time to block a strong cut. Melkor snarls, pulling his blade back for a thrust.

Heart thudding, he takes a chance -- and a bright Elven blade is swung.

Melkor acts like lightning. He_ deflected my attack! _Now breath is coming in ragged gasps; how long has this been going? Why can't anyone hear? He turns around in an awkward angle, and Melkor throws the ornamental shield from his arm.

Melkor towers over him and he recoils: s_ince when have I grown so weak?_ He desperately thrusts the sword at the dark Vala. Melkor escapes easily. Finwë scrambles to a better position and Melkor seizes his chance. The sword approaches… _has my time come already? Surely not—I must stay alive for as long as I can. _And as he rushes out of the deadly range of the swing, his lips part in another desperate cry:

"_Heru nyéron, heru ulcon!" _Lord of sorrow, lord of evil. _At the end of it all, you too will know defeat._

He grips his sword and slashes: _again! Again, for all I am worth! _His attempts are futile. Melkor brings his sword down, and it misses by a hair. Finwë lunges with his own blade, and it hits, but he does not know—_Melkor is wearing armour? _Silently cursing himself for his carelessness, he strikes again. But Melkor is fully aware this time. The twisted blade flashes. Blood spills onto the grass, and after a yell of pain, a cry rings out:

"_Ani nesta!__"_ Heal me! _And mar the victory of the darkness._

Lying on the ground, gazing in the direction of his treasury, he struggles to sit up. His desperate yell is cut off by the sound of gurgling blood. More of the scarlet liquid spatters the grass in front of him, and he falls on his back, breathing hard: _I have failed my family. _Melkor raises his sword, and…

_Telpecálë, carnecálë, ar oirahuinë. _Flash of silver, flash of red and eternal shadows.


End file.
